


(You Can) Never, Ever Leave

by MyckiCade



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Language, M/M, The Growing Pains of a New Marriage, sap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:27:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiCade/pseuds/MyckiCade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a few kinks that need working out. A successful marriage requires far more than a new home. A new home needs more than a fresh coat of paint. It's a domino effect, one that Oswald seems to have complete faith in. Jim just hopes all the pieces have been properly aligned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction: Honey Didn't Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillicentCordelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Gotham. I am not that clever. This work is for fan enjoyment only. No infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: For MillicentCordelia, winner of Rock and Win Friday, over at the WGBP, and the most patient individual I have ever written for. I wanted to post this all as one piece, but... It fought me, on that decision. So, instead of making you wait, any longer, here is the first portion of this little tale. I hope that you enjoy!
> 
> P.S. The other chapters are longer, and more involved. This part honestly was meant to be so... snippet-like! :).

“Harvey, just put it down!” Jim shouts. It's not panic that has him shouting, no. He has no fear of this. It's what he'd planned for, expected. It's just that... He has about five seconds to fix this thing, before all hell busts loose.

“I, uh... I don't know if I can, partner,” Harvey responds, voice wavering in uncertainty. Glancing over from his perch, precarious and unsteady, Jim takes in the sight of the older man. Harvey has his right arm stretched before himself, fingers wrapped around a metal handle. His knuckles are nearly white for the strength of his grip, and it's right then, right _there_ that Jim sees what has Harvey's nerves on-edge.

He laughs.

Harvey looks up, indignant. “It's not funny, man. I don't think I can let you do it.” Jim's laughter increases, and his partner huffs. “I'm serious. _No room_ should be...” He sours. “ _This colour._ ”

“Oh, come on,” Jim reasons, easing himself down from the ladder. The old thing wobbles with his every move, only stopping once he has both feet planted firmly on the ground. “It's not _that_ bad.” The look Harvey shoots him could kill a man at ten paces. Jim nearly gulps. "Is it?"

“Jimbo, it's half-way between vomit, and bird shit.” Taking a quick peek into the can, Jim grimaces. This fresh perspective isn't too far off. “If I put this on your walls, I'm gonna' tell you to grab a paper towel, and clean it up.” He shudders. “Or... Call janitorial. It's un _god_ ly.”

Jim sighs. For the ugly association Harvey has just put into his head, he has to agree. But, the truth won't buy him time, and they're already crunching, as it is. “Be that, as it may, we can't sit and argue about it.”

“The hell, we can't!”

“Harvey,” Jim nearly bellows, causing the man to look up in surprise. “Gertrude is going to be here in three days. Oswald is due home, at any second, and we – yes, _we,_ as per the terms of our arrangement – were supposed to have this room done, _yesterday._ ” Harvey nods, guilty, and Jim runs a hand through his own hair. “Christ, he's gonna' kill me,” he laughs, turning on his heel to grab the paint rollers. “A week-long business trip, and it looks like I've ignored his request.”

Harvey scoffs. “The great Jim Gordon gets a Honey Do List. Imagine that.” Finally setting the can of paint down on the floor, he takes a few steps back. Jim can't help but to roll his eyes. The man has shown less care in the face of explosive objects. Instead of voicing his observation, Jim simply holds out a roller, which Harvey reluctantly accepts. “Tell me, what else does the little prince have you do, exactly? Are you on garbage duty, too?” It's just a tease, something to get a rise out of him, and, fuck it, _it's working._

“Yes, Harvey, for God's sake.” Snatching up the paint can, he pours a generous amount into each of two trays. “I'm on trash duty, all right?” Really, it's more _back on,_ but, it's a discussion for another day. “And, laundry. Cooking. Dishes.” Grabbing the second roller, Jim proceeds to dunk it in the paint tray. “I've really been able to hone my domestic skills, since I've been on leave,” he continues, sarcastically. “I even caught up on my _Oprah._ ”

Harvey scoffs. “Always figured you for more of an _Ellen_ kind of a guy.” He pauses, for a moment, and it takes Jim a minute longer to realize that Harvey has silenced himself, in order to stare. Specifically, he is staring at where Jim has decided to start streaking paint over the walls.

“What?” he asks, his tone more offended than he means it to be. Criticism, he can handle. Mockery, however, is another story, entirely. Harvey just shakes his head.

“Nothin', man. I mean, sure, I knew you liked to lay it on, pretty thick, sometimes...” Jim frowns in confusion, before Harvey nods toward the wall. “If you keep slobberin' it on, like that, we'll have to buy a few more gallons. You get what I mean?”

Looking back at his roller – and, yeah, he _is_ kind of just... globbing it on, there, pretty good – Jim sighs. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, casting a sidelong glance at his partner. “You some kinda' expert in painting, Bullock?”

Harvey puffs up, a bit, at the question. “It just so happens, I've painted some pretty fantastic walls, in my day.” Reaching the pole down, Harvey gets a proper amount of paint onto his roller, before grinning at Jim. “Watch, and learn, young man.”

 _Tsk_ ing, Jim shakes his head, before he does, in fact, take a few moments observe Harvey's technique. Personally, he thinks the colour is going on, a bit thin, but... It looks better than the gory, yellowing mess that he surely was about to cause. Jim makes the appropriate corrections to his own form, before returning roller to wall.

It's several moments later that Harvey finally breaks. “Seriously, though. Why this colour?”

Jim smirks. “It's really that important to you?”

“I think I understand, now, what all the kids mean by, 'It's hurting my soul'.”

“Gertrude picked it out,” Jim admits, taking up a bit more paint. “She thought it would look nice, behind the piano.”

“What, is she colorblind, or somethin'?” Harvey scoffs. “The only way it's gonna' look good, is if the piano stands tall enough to block out the entire room.”

“It's a favour for my husband, all right?” Jim pleads, watching in no small amount of amusement the way the word 'husband' still makes Harvey cringe, a bit. It's a word that carries too many implications for a guy like Bullock, and that really tickles Jim. “Mother-in-law gets to be involved, husband is happy, and I don't get beaten to death with an umbrella, any time in the near future.”

“I don't know how you do it, man,” Harvey marvels, taking a side step away from Jim. “Especially with her color preferences. I mean, what's next? Is she gonna' wanna' choose the colour for the kid's nursery, too?”

Jim snaps his head up, in alarm. “There's no way, in _hell._ ”

“Mark my words,” Harvey warns. He doesn't finish the sentence, just leaves it open. Jim scowls.

“Promise me something? If I start talking about letting her do any such thing, you fit me for cement shoes.”

Harvey chuckles. “Not a problem, partner. But, uh... 'Cement shoes'? What? Did we join the mafia, when I wasn't lookin'?”

“Shut up, and paint.”


	2. Fire on the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hysteria, that's what he would blame. Nerves, and nausea, and dizziness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Yay! Another chapter! So much fluff. I just can't help it. :3. What the lady wants, the lady shall have! ;)! I hope that you all enjoy!

Chapter Two

Fire on the Ground

 

Jim straightened his tie, double-checking (triple-, quadruple-checking) his reflection in the entrance mirror. His hair was combed into an acceptable position, even if it was getting a bit long for his personal tastes. There wasn't a wrinkle to be found in his suit, and his shoes had been shined to within an inch of their lives. Still, something bothered him. The house was clean, from freshly-scrubbed floors, to streak-free windows. The lawn had been clipped down to a proper inch, the day before, then raked over, the clumps of cut grass added to the compost pile, out back. The walkways and porches were swept clean, and the flowers in front of the steps had all been watered. Everything was _fine_. There was no reason for him to be so nervous as he was.

The thought didn't help. If anything, it made him nauseous. _What in the world was he forgetting?_

Stopping for a look around, Jim peered into the sitting room. The new furniture had been moved back into the room, the day before, with Harvey's help. Should they have left the covers on the couch and chairs? Did it make them look haphazard, and messy? No, Jim had to remind himself, they looked fine. Actually, everything looked pretty damn good, if he did say so, himself. The rugs had been cleaned, hardwood floors steamed... Hell, even the throw pillows had been washed, and fluffed. The piano was settled back to its usual space, right in front of the newly-painted back wall. That ugly-ass, off-white wall, which made Jim simultaneously cringe, and wish for the piano to grow those few inches taller. Harvey was right. It really did look like bird shit.

Still, that wasn't it.

Now, Jim liked to think of himself as a man of reason, of good sense. He'd negotiated hostage situations, without breaking a (visible) sweat. Chased down and tackled a suspect, with a bullet lodged in his own side. Mouthed-off to what seemed like every high-ranking official in the city, spine straight, shoulders squared, and chin up. Fought for his life, both in and out of Gotham. The lives of _others._ He'd been unnerved, but able to hide it. Able to swear to himself that he could handle whatever he was thrown, and, in the event that couldn't, he would always know that he'd done everything within his power, even if it killed him.

Which was why it made no damned sense, now, that his hands were shaking. He'd known Gertrude for quite some time, almost as long as he'd known Oswald. She didn't pose a threat to him, certainly, over-the-moon as she'd been, in her own way, the day they'd announced their impending nuptials. Granted, she'd had a few glasses of wine, by then, but, her position on the matter hadn't soured in the months that followed. She'd danced with Jim at the reception, laughing along with whatever he'd been saying to her, at the time. She'd helped them with window treatments, and other household details that both he and Oswald were all thumbs over. (Really, he could barely pick out a matching tie, and that, in and of itself, was pretty sad). Jim didn't need to impress the woman, that was the bottom line. She already liked him. He was, in a poor choice of words, off the hook.

Yet, he couldn't get his stomach to settle. Reaching up to run a hand through his hair – and, catching himself, just in time – Jim sighed. He really needed to get a grip. Or, have a drink. Yes, a drink, that sounded like a fine idea. The champagne was on ice, but, if he cracked into it, now, Oswald would have a bird. Jim nearly snickered. _No pun, intended._

Oh, he was a horrible husband. Especially with how that near-snicker was quickly turning into a full-blown laugh.

Hysteria, that's what he would blame. Nerves, and nausea, and dizziness. Those were the reasons for why he stood at the entrance of his own home, nearly doubled-over in laughter, for the single, most ridiculous accidental joke he had ever made. Either that, or, he was finally losing his marbles. As everyone already knew, he should be far beyond that point.

 

* * *

 

“James!” Oswald called into the house, crossing the threshold, with a large suitcase in either hand. Glancing back over his left shoulder, Oswald smiled to his mother. “I know he's home. Probably in the kitchen. Hard to hear, from there.” Hefting the suitcases to settle by the stairs, Oswald let out an exaggerated breath, and straightened himself. Heavy as the cases were, he was all-too-happy to relieve himself of them. Apparently, Mother had yet to master the fine art of packing, lightly. “There we are.” Turning back to his mother, who was glancing up toward the ceiling, Oswald gestured toward the hallway. “I'm going to go find James, if you'd care to join me?”

With a small nod, Gertrude stepped forward, long fingers reaching out to wrap around her son's arm. “Of course, Oswald,” she agreed, her free hand coming up to pat at his wrist. “I am most eager to see my son-in-law.”

Oswald lead his mother down the hallway, checking rooms, as they went. There was no sign of James, in the sitting room, nor in the dining room. His bet was still on the kitchen, but, he was content to continue on with their leisurely pace, through the house. No need to race, after all. It was rare that he found time to spend with his mother, especially in the last few months. Between wedding preparation, and business, there had hardly been time for him to _breathe,_ let alone to take pleasure trips.

Besides, if he knew James – and, he did, in every sense of the notion – these few moments spent wandering their home would be vital to the older man's own preparations. He probably hadn't swung into a full-blown panic, yet.

The thought really shouldn't have had Oswald smiling, like it was. Oh, well. It was what it was, after all.

Their trip down the hall continued on, in silence, for the next few steps. They paused, half-way to the kitchen, however, in order to admire a picture hanging on the wall.

“Oh, he's so _handsome,_ Oswald,” Gertrude gushed, eyes fixed on a rather fetching image of James, in his dress uniform. After a moment, she tore her gaze away, patting her son on the cheek, with a wistful sigh. “I'm so happy for you. Imagine, my boy, the most handsome businessman in Gotham, married to the most handsome policeman in the entire city.”

To that, Oswald couldn't help but smile, if even go a bit pink in the cheeks. “I'm not about to argue you, there.” He was no stranger to the fact that he was about as lucky a man as they came, especially when it came to his husband. _Husband._ The word still managed to send a little tingle of excitement through him. “A man like James Gordon is quite a catch.”

Gertrude nodded, eagerly, as she urged them back to walking. “Yes, yes! And, it makes me so happy... Happy to know that, soon enough, I will have the most beautiful grandchildren to spoil.”

Oswald nearly screeched to a halt, only managing to keep his legs moving, but for the grace of whatever deity was listening, and taking pity on him. _Grandchildren?_ Oh, Lord, was that what this visit was about?

“Mother,” he began, as carefully as he could manage. “Mother, please, do me a favour?” The kitchen was coming into view, and he could just hear the clinking of glasses. It was no big surprise that James was likely readying the champagne. If he hadn't already taken a few gulps of the stuff, that was. (Really, Oswald wouldn't have blamed him, either – in fact, he would have happily snuck a few, himself).

Again, Gertrude smiled. “Anything, darling.”

“Please,” Oswald continued, practically before his mother had finished her own sentence, “for the love of God, and the sake of my marriage, please, _please,_ do _not_ mention children, in front of James.”

For a brief second, Gertrude looked rather taken aback. “But, why? Oswald, has James said something?” Her mouth hung open, for a beat. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no, no,” he assured, quickly, patting the hand wrapped around his arm. Oh, how _was_ he to put it, delicately? “It's only that... Well... James is only just healed from his encounter with that madman, and, that's quite enough stress for him.” _Brilliant, Oswald. She'll buy that._ “I don't want him having a set-back, because he feels pressured into starting a family, on top of worrying about returning to work.”

_Not to mention, the fact that we've only been married for seven weeks, Mother, Dear,_ Oswald grumbled, in his thoughts. _We're just beginning to get used to 'us'._

“Oh, yes, of course,” Gertrude agreed, hushing her voice, considerably. Understanding coloured her expression, as she, too, glanced toward the kitchen. “I promise, Oswald, darling. Not a word.”

A half-convinced smile crossed Oswald's lips, as he fought the urge to gulp. Oh, if only he could believe that. Perhaps, if he kept her from the champagne? If she went on, spilling those words to James... There was just no telling how the man would handle it. Choke on his salad? Faint to the floor? _Leave?_ Call him crazy, but, Oswald wasn't too keen on any of the above.

Opening his mouth for a deeper assurance, Oswald had no chance to make voice of it. Gertrude plastered on her best, 'nonsense-nothing-is-wrong' smile, and strode into the kitchen.

“James!” she declared, throwing her arms open, wide. “Darling!”

Closing his eyes, Oswald fought the urge to rub at his temples. Hopefully, Mother's visit wouldn't prove to be one of his worse ideas.

 


	3. I'd Make Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I’ve been out of the game, for a little while. But, I am returning with fic, aplenty!
> 
> MillicentCordelia, I never did forget you!
> 
> P.S. This is the sappiest thing I think I’ve ever shared, here. I’m still mopping it up!

 

Following various greetings, of the hugs-and-kisses variety, Jim’s stomach began to settle down. It was a slow process, but he no longer felt the need to dive out the kitchen window, so, that seemed like good news. Especially for Oswald's beloved roses. The bushes had grown tall, with full, impressive pink blooms, which carried a fragrance he didn’t outright hate through the immediate area. Oswald was so damn proud of those things. It was in Jim’s best interest to keep himself away from the window, and the flowers, just in case. He didn't imagine that they'd look too good, after a grown man had a screaming, head-first roll in them.

Two glasses of champagne seemed to take care of the rest of Jim's nerves, the first sipped, carefully, while the other was downed like a bubbly shot, while no one was looking. He was able to carry bowls and trays to the back deck, with only minimal fear that he would drop them to a shattering end. (Some impression _that_ would have made). Lunch, thereafter, was a comfortable affair, topics of conversation pertaining to home, and family, all of the truly important things. Gertrud did a fair amount of the talking, eventually catching them up on the news from the inner city, double-murders, unsolved break-ins, disappearances that the police just hadn't bothered looking into.

“Thirteen missing children, in two weeks,” Gertrud cried. “Not _one_ of them found. Only two of their pictures even made the news.”

The tales left Jim’s stomach in knots, of a new design, tighter and tighter, story after story. Christ, he felt like such an idiot, getting himself shot. He needed to be out there, helping those people. Those _kids._ It was his sworn duty, as it was to the multitude of useless would-be detectives that he and Harvey called their brothers. Yet, there he sat, enjoying the day, as though there wasn't a care in the world. Meanwhile, other families sat, suffering.

He must have got up a concerning frown, because, within seconds, he felt Oswald's hand slide over his own.

"It's okay," Oswald murmured, giving him as comforting a smile as Jim had ever seen, accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his fingers. Oswald was right, as always. There was nothing that Jim could do, not for a few more weeks. He had to put the thoughts of vigilantism out of his head, and focus on his recovery. Even if it _was_ easier said, than done.

Taking a deep breath, the cop calmed down... And, the husband worked to settle himself back into the conversation.

Which, apparently, had taken a turn toward the morbid. "And, that was when they broke down the door, and found poor Mrs. Mendleton... Dead!" Gertrud shook her head. There was no amount of sincerity that could leave any of the three of them in true shock. Still, it was lunch. To Jim’s left, even Oswald paused, one eyebrow raised. "They said, it was a heart attack, of course. And, she must have been there for some time. Her cats had taken to chewing on her." Sighing, Gertrud carefully forked up a bit of egg. "At least, that explained the smell in the hallway."

Oswald's tea cup clinked to its saucer, as its holder looked away, in mild irritation. "Mother, really?"

"Oh, I swear it!" Gertrud piped back up, upon swallowing her bite of food. "It was the most horrible stench. Between her, and the cats-"

"I-I remember the cats," Oswald interrupted, holding up a hand. "And, while the world will surely mourn the loss of Mrs. Mendleton, I hardly think that discussion of her unfortunate demise is... respectful, for the lunch table."

Jim, silent through the exchange, slid his eyes back over to Gertrud. She was going to do one of two things, he was sure of it. Either, she would completely over-react, for the fact that ‘even her own son didn’t listen to her’, or, she would keep going, with no regard to Oswald's complaints, whatsoever. It was the way of things, the natural order of their relationship. Which was why it took the both of them by surprise, when the next words out of the woman's mouth were,

"Of course, of course, Darling. I am sorry."

Turning his raised-eyebrow expression back to his husband, Jim found himself fighting back laughter. Oswald's jaw was nearly to the tablecloth, eyes as big as the saucers beneath their cups. It lasted for all of ten seconds, before the dark-haired man recovered... Mostly.

"It's, um... It's quite all right, Mother," Oswald replied, fingers fidgeting over his lap. He didn't know what to say, much less do, that much was clear to Jim. Dipping his head, as he brought his cup to his lips, the detective hid a smirk. Time to play hero.

"So, what happened to her cats?" he inquired, re-directing both awkward response, and earth-shattering surprise. The glance Oswald passed him was nothing short of thankful, to which James merely smiled.

Gertrud nearly choked on her next bite, in such a pleased rush, as she apparently was, to share the shocking conclusion. "Well! Immediately, an organization came in, some of those animal rights people, you know the type? I swear, people in this city care more for animal life, than human!"

*          *          *

There wasn't much to do, by way of sight-seeing. Many of the homes on their road were of the same variety, a fact that Jim wasn't ashamed to point out, during the afternoon walk that Gertrud had suggested. (It was more of a request, seasoned with an order, but, the woman had wrapped it up, so nicely, Jim had accepted it for a gift). Oswald had been forced to take a business call, leaving Mother and Son-in-Law to enjoy the warm sun, alone. Gertrud hadn't argued, a fact that left Jim slightly suspicious as to the tone of their stroll. Other purposes, and ulterior motives being what they were... Oswald got his sneakiness from somewhere, after all.

Once light conversation had been exhausted - everything from houses, and flower choices, to patio furniture, and the rust under the passenger door of Mr. Farely's sedan - the two slipped into a moment of comfortable silence.

"So, James..."

Like he’d thought. A moment. “Yes, Ma’am?”

"My son... He is happy, now, yes?"

Jim frowned, a bit. "As far as I know...” It would be news to Jim, to learn that his husband was dissatisfied with... well, anything, really. Oswald was plenty vocal, when Jim did something that upset him. “But, I don't think I understand. You suspect he's not?" What had he missed? What had Oswald said to get his mother's hackles up? Multiple possibilities danced through his mind, each one more frightening than the last. Was it the fact that he was still laid-up, and missing work? Had he somehow been rude, and inconsiderate, when it came to their arrangements? Was it that damned bird-shit paint in the sitting room? _What?_

"He worries about you."

At that, Jim looked back up, from where he had been not-studying his shoes. Gertrud didn't look his way, instead keeping her gaze somewhere ahead of herself. Her profile didn't look angry. Concerned, maybe. And, though it hardly answered his question, Gertrud's response was... bothersome. Guilt-inspiring. "I know," Jim sighed, scuffing his shoes, lightly, over the bits of dirt and gravel beneath them.

Gertrud nodded, a bit. "He's told you."

"Oh, yes," Jim replied, with a smile. "Repeatedly. I've told him, he should switch careers. He missed his calling, for blatant nagging."

"It's not nagging." Gertrud's voice was sharp, the words all but hissed from her tongue. The sound left Jim in a bit of a cringe. “He cares for you. He worries. He doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

Oh, now, he’d done it. “Gertrud,” Jim jumped in, voice raised, enough to speak over the _now-_ angry woman staring him down. She silenced, but kept her eyes on him. It was equal parts relieving, and unnerving. “I know. I know, it’s not meant to be nagging. I’m sorry.” It had been a poor choice of words, without question, a joke shared between the two husbands, once the argument was over. Gertrud had no way of knowing, and that had been Jim’s mistake. “Believe me. I take everything to heart, every concern, every plea for me to take a step back. I get it. I promise.”

Gertrud looked the man over, carefully, mouth down-turned, in something of a scowl. Jim found himself holding his breath, every twitch of his mother-in-law’s eyes disturbing him, further. He wasn’t lying, he knew he wasn’t. Under such close scrutiny, however, it was difficult _not_ to feel like the guilty party. Finally, he heard Gertrud heave a long, tired sigh.

“I know, you do,” was her quiet reply. She looked toward Jim, briefly, her expression somewhere between apologetic, and spiteful. It was difficult to tell, sometimes, with that family, mother and son, whether they wanted to hug you, or rip out your throat. It was suddenly startling for Jim, to realize just how often he skirted that line. “I just… worry. I love you, both, I truly do.” Glancing up, once more, Gertrud turned sorrowful eyes on Jim’s own. Their gaze held, for a moment, and that unpleasant feeling went back to twisting, in Jim’s gut. “I… I don’t want to see something happen to you. I don’t want my son left all alone, again.”

It was a long moment, and an extra beat on the holding of their gaze, before Gertrud finally looked away. Reaching out, Jim grasped one of her hands. “Gertrud, listen to me.” Finally, he took a breath, respite from the panic he felt rising within himself. The next words from his mouth needed to be chosen, very carefully. The idea of death didn’t tickle him, certainly, nor did the thought of leaving his husband behind, should he be killed. Still, it was his job. His chosen profession. His line of work. He understood the risks, and the consequences, as did Oswald. Oswald’s work was no better. No matter how much they wished it, neither of them was going to change. It was worthwhile, between them, to enjoy whatever time they would have, together.

There was just no way to make Gertrud understand that.

“I love Oswald,” Jim reaffirmed, squeezing Gertrud’s hand, carefully. “I would never, under any circumstances, willingly, or knowingly, do _anything_ that would hurt him.” He’d done quite enough of it, already, from the day that they’d first met. He was reminded of it, every time he watched Oswald cross a room. “I swear to you, on every ounce of life that I have left, in me, that I will always do the best I can, by your son.”

Gertrud let out a shaking breath. “He was so upset, when you were hurt…”

“One time,” Jim reminded her. “One time, one bullet, and one very serious lesson learned.” He smiled. “Besides, if nothing else, you can take from it a single fact.”

“I can?”

“Yes, Ma’am. You can take from the entire experience, from two surgeries, and countless hours of the doctors telling you all to prepare for the worst… You can take from it, the knowledge that not even that could keep me from Oswald.”

The smile that came to Gertrud’s face crept up slowly, her damp eyes glancing away. Again, Jim found himself holding his breath. “You are a good man, James Gordon.” The praise was quiet, gentle, and she gave his hand a long-awaited return squeeze. There may have been more that she wanted to say, but, the words never came out. Instead, she slid her arm around Jim’s waist. With a smile of his own, Jim rested an arm around her shoulders.

“Let’s head home, huh?” he suggested. “If I don’t get the dishwasher loaded, I’ll be in big trouble.”


End file.
